


i'm not your protagonist (i'm not even my own)

by azvremoon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: /dreamsmp rp, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Antarctic Empire, Child Neglect, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Possible Character Death, Suicide Attempt, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, please read the end notes for full content warnings :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon
Summary: “Tommy, you’d never be a bad guy. You’re a hero, right?”“I thought the same about you once and look how that turned out. I looked up to Wilbur, I wanted to be just like him. Maybe in the end I really am.”(Tommy has been through enough. It’s no wonder he eventually breaks beyond all repair and there’s nothing his dysfunctional family can do to fix him.)
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 41
Kudos: 767





	i'm not your protagonist (i'm not even my own)

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be, at the most, about 3-4k long. What the fuck happened.
> 
> This fic was inspired entirely by the song Rat by Penelope Scott, but the title is from Sweet Hibiscus Tea instead. 
> 
> Unfortunately the character tags don’t separate the content creator from their RP character, but this is specifically about the characters in the DreamSMP lore, not the irl people. It’s also not canon complaint as far as I can tell, because I’m a week or two behind on streams right now.

Lately, Tommy has been feeling so very cold. 

It’s not a strange thing considering he is currently knee-deep in snow, the winter wind nipping at the curve of his cheekbones, snowflakes speckled across blonde hair. But perhaps the issue is that lately does not mean a couple of days or a week or two. 

No, it means months, even when Tommy would often awaken with the sun beating down on his easily burnt skin as his body was dragged deeper and deeper into the ocean’s clutches, sand stuck beneath his fingertips as he scratched at his throat for air. 

His family surrounds him, hovering anxiously over the collapsed form of a far too skinny teenager. They had been hours into a trip for more materials, scavenging deeper and deeper into the icy lands Techno had declared as his - theirs, Tommy reminds himself, forever forgetting that he is part of the equation now - home. 

Somewhere along the line as they made their journey back to the cabin, maybe after Techno’s fifth scathing comment in the last minute, possibly after Ghostbur had made another insensitive statement without knowing any better, Tommy had just lost all the strength in his limbs and settled himself down into the blanket of snow, blinking back the oncoming exhaustion. 

Tommy should feel warm. He is bundled in layers and layers of protective gear, the hood of his fur-lined cloak resting around the curve of his neck to protect him from the chill. His father stands behind his back, asking what is wrong in a tone that should be guiding and comforting. But instead the material scratches and Phil’s voice grates and everything is too much all at once. 

It had only taken a week to get used to torn-up shirts and no shoes, it had only taken two to grow accustomed to just the sound of his own voice over the silence of the shore. Anything more than that makes alarm bells ring in his head, sirens blaring as if he can imagine Dream emerging through the fog, ready to make Tommy pay the price for the sins the man always claimed he had committed. 

Ghostbur floats down to his level, hollow eyes almost sparking up with emotion for once, curling an absent hand around the curve of Tommy’s face. His touch is light, more of a phantom breeze than actually applying pressure, and Tommy refuses to let himself flinch anymore than he already does at any slight sign of an incoming fist. “Are you okay, Tommy?”

What does it mean to be okay? Tommy wonders. Those who are okay probably do not constantly fall into worst case scenarios when a better path is unavoidable. Those who are okay probably do not scream into the night till their lungs ache because the monsters beneath their bed will not leave them alone. Those who are okay probably do not stand at the edge of a cliff and fantasise about tumbling down into the lava below. If that’s the case, then Tommy is most likely absolutely not okay at all.

“Do you feel sick? I’m sure Techno could carry you home if you can’t walk any further,” he asks, well-intentioned, but the fact that he can’t remember basic facts still stings even though Tommy should be used to it by now. Ghostbur should recall how Tommy has always hated feeling weak, how he always pushes himself to his absolute limit just to avoid being looked down on by his much stronger, much more revered older brother. The thought of Techno cradling him, treating him like even more of a child than he already does, makes Tommy feel sick. 

“Oh, I could give you some blue! Maybe that would help,” Ghostbur offers, already digging through his inventory for the object he freely offers to everyone he passes by, even dropping it into the fur of his blue-dyed sheep. He extends his hand out, crystals lying exposed in his open palm, and Tommy just stares at him blankly, frosted lips tense and twisted into a frown.

Tommy loved Wilbur, adored him with the kind of unconditional affection only a naive child could manage. And even as Tommy grew and grew till he and his older brother almost stood on an equal level, that kind of feeling never faded, not even when Wilbur malformed beyond recognition and left Tommy bruised beyond belief. But Ghostbur? Tommy isn’t so sure that he loves him, because the Wilbur of before would have offered another solution than relying on just a colour.

“I don’t need any fucking blue, Ghostbur.” Tommy is the one person who manages to never forget that Ghostbur actually hates being considered Wilbur, but the small action that would suggest an inkling of respect is nothing compared to Tommy’s accusatory and unfriendly tone. The one person Tommy has ever felt comfortable spilling his guts to is long gone, no longer whole and instead just left behind as a splintered piece of a larger puzzle. 

Tommy doesn’t want Ghostbur, he wants Alivebur - not the man who had burned all of Tommy’s hopes and dreams to the ground, but the boy with kind eyes and a kind smile who would let Tommy muffle his sobs into his chest when Phil and Techno didn’t arrive home in time for his seventh birthday. Tommy just wants his brother back. 

It’s hard to talk to Ghostbur. Everyone agrees with that, even their father who always manages to speak in a gentle manner and masterfully avoid any serious topics that would set the progress made on Ghostbur’s memories back even more. But Tommy seems to be the only one who has run out of patience permanently, forever on the edge of snapping at the ghost for his ignorance, trampling over any chance of repairing their relationship instead of acting as if he is walking on eggshells.

“Tommy, please be nice to your brother,” Phil sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, disappointed by his son’s attitude and yet wholly resigned to hearing Tommy’s abrasive tone. Something in Tommy breaks a little more at that, because the inhuman remains of his brother are deemed more worthy of respect than Tommy ever has been, facing years and years of ire that Techno never bothered to hold back, leaving him with issues Phil never tried to fix.

The laugh that scrapes Tommy’s throat raw is bitter and out of control, harsh enough that Ghostbur’s permanent smile shudders for a moment. “He’s not my brother,” Tommy says, because he isn’t. It’s a simple fact. Wilbur is six feet under and Tommy hasn’t become foolish enough in his mourning to pretend he is anything but dead and buried. “Wilbur raised me and then ruined me, and I’m sorry, but he’s not him. Not to me.”

“I mean, he’s technically not wrong,” Ghostbur points out, his voice airy and entirely too nonchalant for the situation, although Tommy catches the way his hands twitch at Tommy’s casual admittance of what Alivebur did to him, the unasked questions clearly resting on the ghost’s tongue. “I’m not the Wilbur you knew.”

“But could you be?” Tommy asks, not quite sure if he wants to hear yes or no to that question, not when he is still so conflicted when it comes to the pros and cons of Wilbur returning once more. There’s a difference, Tommy thinks, between the beginnings of Wilbur, of a young man strumming his guitar on street corners, and the final product, a man high on his own god complex that turned a town into a crater. “If you remembered, would you be him again?”

“Um, would you want me to be?” Ghostbur seems confused by the direction this has taken, tilted off course to a tangent on someone Tommy should have given up on eons ago. But Tommy can’t stop himself, not when he is constantly spiralling out of control, the tether that keeps him connected to reality ever so close to snapping. 

“I- I don’t know,” Tommy answers honestly, staring down wide-eyed as his uncovered fingers turn a concerning shade of red as they sink into the snow, the numbness that spreads across his skin somehow comforting. It’s true. Tommy hasn’t known what he wants from the world ever since Dream decided to make all his decisions for him. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“Tommy,” Phil says his name once more, his voice more insistent and urgent this time as he hunches over so he can catch a glimpse of the warring emotions that twist and transform Tommy’s expression into something bitter. Techno lingers in the background, saying nothing, reaction hidden behind the boar skull that rests over most of a face that was never truly that expressive to begin with. “Toms, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Tommy whispers, the side effects of being used to the climate of a beach starting to rattle through his fragile body, his arms shaking and unsteady under the snow’s cold grip. Ghostbur’s fingers reach out, ready to balance him, and Tommy jolts back, imagining fingerless gloves and the dark sleeve of a trench coat in the place of yellow wool and grey skin. He tumbles back instinctively, landing further into the snow as the frost starts to sink into his knees, arms curling around himself as a weak form of protection. “Don’t touch me-”

Ghostbur jerks back as if Tommy’s rejection burns, the boy’s mind branding him as someone untrustworthy, and the ghost’s reaction forces Tommy’s vision to return to normal. Once again, he is gazing up into eyes that are no longer clouded by madness and Tommy realises he’s fucked up, allowing someone to see just how deep his trauma runs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- please don’t-“ _Please don’t hurt me._ Tommy clamps his mouth shut but the intention of his words continues on and the eerie silence that follows does not settle comfortably.

“Tommy, are you - were you scared of Alivebur?” Ghostbur sounds heartbroken by the possibility, caught off guard since Tommy has always known how to cover his fear with a cheery facade, and Tommy can’t deny the truth of the matter. But it’s not that big of a deal, not to Tommy, considering he constantly flits between being scared of everything and being terrified of absolutely nothing. “What did I do to you?” 

“Wilbur was great, you know,” Tommy rambles nervously, gaze pinned down his trembling fingers so he won’t have to meet Ghostbur’s hopeful eyes knowing that all Tommy can do now is disappoint. He bites his lip hard, hoping the irony taste on his tongue will prevent his heart from tumbling out of his throat. “The big brother I had always wanted.” The words physically hurt, wrenching out of Tommy in a rough gasp, because Tommy never gets what he wants anymore.

“Just Wilby and Tommy against the world, right?” Ghostbur perks up, echoing the words a very young Tommy had screeched as Wilbur spun him around, with scrapes over his knees and one of his front teeth missing, before they tumbled into the grass of the garden and Wilbur accidentally broke his wrist. It’s a happy memory, despite how Wilbur couldn’t play any instruments for months afterwards. Tommy misses that time. 

“Wilbur was great,” Tommy repeats, sensitive to the fact that he’s imprisoned, caged in on all sides. One wrong word and Phil will intervene, stepping in solely to protect the innocence of the middle child with no care for how a sixteen year old is being crushed beneath the weight of Wilbur’s sins. “Until he wasn’t. Something changed and then he wasn’t at all.”

And something, maybe the lost and tormented look in Tommy’s tired eyes, maybe how his voice cracks under the stress, makes Ghostbur pause. “On second thought, maybe I don’t want to talk about this,” Ghostbur laughs nervously, inching away from Tommy’s collapsed form, the partially translucent pendant hanging around his neck beginning to fill with more and more blue. 

Anger, bright and brutal anger, rises up through Tommy’s aching chest, tensing his shoulders as his nails dig further into the ground. “I don’t care that you don’t want to think about it, not when I have to think about everything Wilbur did every day of my life!” The words burst out without warning or consent, fire fuelled by Ghostbur’s avoidance. “I hear his voice in my dreams every night, telling me to be the bad guy. But that’s not what I want, that has never been what I wanted.”

“Tommy, you’d never be a bad guy,” Ghostbur frowns, sounding almost petulantly pissed off by the idea, probably still stuck in his memories of Tommy as a child who always declared he’d become a knight in shining armour. But Tommy isn’t that kid anymore, he’s just a lost boy who has seen enough warfare to give him countless nightmares for an entire lifetime. “You’re a hero, right?”

Laughter bubbles up Tommy’s tightening throat, a grating and near frantic thing that makes Ghostbur pull back even further in concern as Phil edges closer, his anxiously fluttering wings visible out of the corner of Tommy’s eye. “I thought the same about you once and look how that turned out,” Tommy admits. “I looked up to Wilbur, I wanted to be just like him. Maybe in the end I really am.”

He can easily remember the first day of celebrating L’Manburg’s independence, the loss of his precious discs pounding at the back of his head as he tried to convince himself that it was all for a worthy cause. Tommy’s fingers had hovered over the pressed labels of the uniform that never quite fit right on his gangly frame and he had looked up at Wilbur, catching the proud shine in his not yet crazed eyes as he surveyed the land the two of them had fought so hard for.

In that moment, Tommy had wanted to be just like Wilbur, a president, a man who knew exactly how to spin charismatic words in his favour, someone who could build and save and give to the people who would eventually suffer under Schlatt’s reign. But in the end, Tommy might have become Wilbur, but he is the Wilbur that no one could truly miss, his absence noticed only by Tommy, who would craft a makeshift grave and sob over the loss of a brother who may have misplaced his sanity but at least was willing to keep Tommy around. 

Tommy peers at his freezing hands and can almost imagine them coated in soot and dried blood, hovering above a button that could blow up a whole nation till all that is left behind is ash and rubble. Few protested Tommy’s exile, barely anyone ever visited and there is no one left to offer him support. Tommy is Wilbur, the abandoned man screeching out for a sliver of attention, bloodshed being his only method of grabbing any to soothe his lonely soul.

Contrary to popular belief, Tommy doesn’t want to rely on violence. Burning George’s house down had been a mistake, one he can barely find it in himself to regret, not when it managed to out just how little Tommy’s loyalty would ever be reciprocated. Willingly allying himself with an anarchist who wants to raze L’Manburg to the ground wasn’t his preferred option, but Tommy didn’t choose this family to be his own and they are the only ones left who will provide him with a roof over his head. And so, violence it is, for better or for worse.

"Wilbur actually cared about something other than war, he actually cared about me. At least, until we came here." Tommy swallows heavily, fighting through the pain that has begun nudging across the base of his skull. "And that was nice, you know? Everyone else was so caught up in fighting, but Wilbur never was. He taught me how to be a human first above everything else. I really needed to know how to feel like that back then. I still do. He would have given me a bad grade for it if he was still around."

Tommy was gifted a father whose first priority has always been survival and a brother whose primary skill set is focused on spilling blood. It's no wonder he's like this now, constantly at someone's throat, eager to solve his own issues by shouting loud enough to drown out the screaming memories that won't leave him alone, too reckless and volatile for his own good.

But Wilbur had smoothed out Tommy's rough edges, washed out the grime from his hair and pressed fresh bread into his hands and kept him safe from the mobs that lingered outside their cabin. He taught Tommy how to kill with kindness, how to be loyal without expecting much in return, how to live without wanting to rip your own hair out, things he never got to learn from the winged man that stands alive beside him now. 

"I looked up to him so much because he was the first person I ever saw who only fought when it was necessary, when there was no other option." Because Tommy grew up on a server filled to the brim with warriors with broad swords strapped to their backs and dozens of kills to their name. And then there was Wilbur, who settled fistfights with urgent negotiation until Techno would come along and finish the fight on his own violent terms. 

"He- well, he tried to teach me to be calm when things go wrong, but I guess the lessons never really stuck for either of us. But at least he tried, you know? He never gave up on me back then." And that is exactly why Tommy doesn't want this half-formed imitation of his brother, who remembers so little of his own list of crimes that he prefers to ignore retribution as if it is a plague. 

Tommy just wants to feel warm again, wants back the nights he'd spend sitting by their front door, waiting for Phil and Techno to return from one of their tournaments even though the younger children both knew they wouldn't. At least then, when Wilbur gathered up a nearly dozing Tommy into his arms, he could seek heat that would ward off the winter chill.

Now, Wilbur's touch haunts instead of comforts and Tommy stares up into his eyes just to see a stranger practically glowing with an unnecessary amount of happiness that does nothing to veil his ignorance to his own failings. It's wrong, so wrong. The Wilbur who raised Tommy, cared for him when no one else would, who preferred playing the guitar and singing lullabies to menacingly waving an axe around in battle arenas, is gone and Tommy will never stop mourning him. 

In his place is someone who cares for Tommy but in the most patronising, oblivious way possible, because Ghostbur’s good memories feature Tommy as a well-meaning and boisterous child and the bad are when Tommy finally faced the music and understood there is nothing left but anger in this husk of this family’s youngest. Tommy hasn’t been a child since he stepped foot on this server and he’ll likely wind up dead before he can escape its clutches.

“This server changed everything - not just Wilbur, but everything in his path. I guess anyone can be vulnerable to power, hell, I was too. But power isn’t worth it, not when it turned Wilbur into someone he wasn’t, not when Wilbur-” Tommy clenches his jaw shut. This is bad territory to trudge into, filled with landmines, not only for the ghost who hates hearing of his past, but for Tommy too, who is used to spending his hours lost in flashbacks but not so used to being caught in the process.

Tommy tries to cave into the urge to just say it, to finally acknowledge the truth of the matter when Techno preferred to ignore any sign of his brother’s deteriorating relationship and Phil was never let onto the secret that was only known to the walls of a ravine. _Not when Wilbur hurt me._ But the confidence never comes and he settles for second best. “Not when Wilbur left me too,” Tommy laughs humourlessly. “But that’s all everyone does, isn’t it? I always get left behind in the end.”

Thinking about everything he has lost makes Tommy shake, shivers running all the way from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He doesn’t bother looking up, not when his neck feels so heavy and his head is busy floating in the clouds, but he can sense Phil edging closer, slowly, step by step nearing his slumped body, careful as if he is dealing with a scared kitten. Tommy is well aware he has already begun falling out of anyone’s reach, tumbling right into the void instead of letting himself be dragged back up into the light. He’s well aware that to everyone else this is out of the blue. But for Tommy, this has been a long time coming.

The cracks had begun the minute L’Manburg became a thought on anyone’s mind. Wilbur had once been the only one to encourage Tommy’s drive to keep walking, a light in the ever present darkness that he had followed along eagerly because Tommy knew there was little purpose for him otherwise. But along the way, Wilbur got distracted by the allure of success and he guided Tommy to the battlefield without a second thought. Tommy was naive then, an idiot who didn’t know any better, and Wilbur took advantage of that. And now what he has left behind was willing to stand there, clueless to reality, while Dream pushed Tommy to his breaking point. 

The words get stuck, refusing to budge as they curl up and rot on the roof of Tommy’s mouth, the bitterness clinging to him like a mold he can’t scrub away. The Tommy of before would have argued and yelled and screamed till his lungs burst, but Dream’s presence is always here now, standing tauntingly over his shoulder, pressing a hand over his mouth to muffle his screams. He wishes he had it in him to inform Ghostbur of the bruises that littered his skin after one of Alivebur’s temper tantrums. 

Tommy had ceased being human the minute he stepped foot in that ravine. From that moment onwards, he was just a tool, another weapon to wield against their enemies before it was due to break from use eventually. Wilbur had lured him in with false promises of another home to call their own. He had taken the declaration of Tommy’s trust and tossed it aside as if it meant nothing. Those lies had hurt more than anything else, even the injuries he hid behind strips of bandages, because Wilbur was the only person Tommy had ever in his sixteen years of living put trust in wholeheartedly after being abandoned over and over again.

He can so vividly imagine it again, all of it - Wilbur’s scathing remarks and never-ending suspicions and the pit they decided to solve all of their disputes in. Pogtopia was never a saviour and none of its inhabitants had a moral high ground to stand on. Wilbur was fueled by greed and pride, Techno by the promise of merciless fighting and taking down a government, Tommy by the manipulation of a man who should have known better than to drag his precious little brother into a warzone. 

Tommy had worked so hard to prove himself as a reliable soldier, a mindless drone to carry on L’Manburg’s original legacy, a willing participant in a revolution against a dictator. And yet all Wilbur did was berate and all Techno did was destroy and all Phil did was show up too late. He’s not blind to the reality of the family he comes from, he’s not blind to what will eventually become of him - Tommy will end up as the villain, no matter what precautions he takes to prevent that. 

Being the bad guy must be inevitable if Tommy is here now, falling face first into what should be enemy territory. Sometimes, all the time, Tommy wishes he could rewind time. But not for the simple answer, oh no - he doesn’t want to push the guts back into Wilbur’s stomach and stitch him up until he was as good as brand new, nor does he wish for L’Manburg to stay whole as it had once been, for nothing can be done to ease its corruptive tendencies. 

No, Tommy wishes that along the way he could have lost another life somewhere, maybe he could have taken the firework that had burnt Tubbo’s face beyond recognition or let Schlatt’s minions pierce an arrow through his neck. That way, when the bombs detonate and he’s standing in the crater of his once home, Tommy could at least stare into Techno’s manic eyes and peer across the rows of wither skulls and die for good disillusioned enough to still see himself as the hero.

Wilbur was right in the end. L’Manburg should have stayed forever unfinished. If it did, perhaps Tommy might have been able to pretend that everything was okay for a little while longer. Tommy had kept on going solely to see the brother he trusted in return back to earth, but he faced disappointment after disappointment, abandoned to face the consequences while blood soaked through a trench coat and the white t-shirt underneath. 

If L’Manburg had ceased to be, before the TNT and the withers, then Tubbo would have never been president, Tommy would never have been exiled and perhaps this story might have had a happy ending. But Tommy never gets the finale he wishes for and Tubbo had ended up being the final straw before the fraying threads that had kept Tommy together had snapped.

Delusions were abound in Logstedshire and Tommy can easily recall the nether portal swirling around the still soft features of Tubbo’s face. He could easily imagine phantom horns curling around the side of brown hair, because he’s still so earnestly convinced that the position of president is cursed to only ever lead its owner to tragedy. Tubbo and Schlatt are not the same, but they are similar in the smallest of ways, and the realisation hurts more than should, considering how long it has been since the bygone days of protective friendships and a wooden bench.

Tommy still doesn’t know if the Tubbo that had watched him from a distance, hidden behind a dense wall of trees, was real or not. But the Tubbo that exiled him, betrayed him, casted him aside as if he was worth absolutely nothing, definitely was. The old Tommy had clung onto the discs as some kind of memorial to the friendship that was the last true emotional connection he had left, but now, as the sound of Tubbo’s scathing apathy grows stronger, he finds himself wishing he could pull them from his ender chest and shatter them into tiny shards.

Hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms to try and ground himself back down to the snow that has sapped away all of his energy, but Tommy always loses himself when it comes down to the loss of everything that meant truly anything to him. He drowns out the questioning tones of first Ghostbur, then Phil and even eventually Techno, letting his own mind take command of his focus. 

His thoughts have grown louder and louder ever since he was left on his own with no one to spill his guts to other than the masked man who got him in this position in the first place, and the volume rises in a crescendo, deafening to only Tommy. His nails scratch desperately at his neck, trying to rid himself of the phantom feeling of a hand clutched tight there, choking Tommy for insubordination against another one of Pogtopia’s destructive plans as a piglin hybrid watches impassively, refusing to intervene even as his own voices in his head screamed for him to do something. 

Distantly, Tommy recognises that he’s mumbling, rambling, unable to decipher the words even though they are slipping from his own mouth, unable to even scold himself for letting out thoughts that should have remained unspoken. It’s all because thinking about Wilbur sends him into a dizzy spill, torn between the bitter taste of betrayal and the part of him that feels as if he left Wilbur to the wolves. “I don’t think I can breathe-“ he rasps out, staring up into Ghostbur’s horrified eyes. “Why can’t I breathe?” 

Familiar voices that have begun to sound as if they belong to strangers in recent times fill Tommy’s aching ears, an added layer to the overwhelming orchestra that creates worst case scenarios for only Tommy to hear. Faintly, he can pick up on some of their desperate words - “Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?” and “W-what’s happening to him?” and “He’s having a panic attack, we need to-“ and “Did I do this to him? Was it all me?” and “Ghostbur, you’ve got to understand that a lot has happened this past year-“ and “What the fuck did I do to him, Techno?” and-

A hand lands on his shoulder and a shriek rumbles through his chest. Tommy instinctively pulls his sword from his inventory because Dream’s there, Dream’s right there, victorious smirk barely hidden beneath the rim of his mask, more TNT in his hands to ruin the few things Tommy has left to call his own- And then Tommy blinks and he’s holding a blade to his father’s throat and he wishes that when he shrivelled up into a tight ball in the hole he dug beneath Techno’s house, that he had succumbed to something, anything, whatever ailment would have finished him off the fastest.

The sword drops into the snow, ice dripping off the tip just like the fresh blood that had stained Tommy’s equally pale chest from one of Dream’s particularly violent punishments. Tommy stares down at his shaking hands in horror, eyes wide and panicked, panting through quivering breaths. He’s going crazy, delusional, just like Wilbur did. Like father, like son, he thinks, and the thought vanishes before he can linger on the fact that somehow his barely older brother had always felt more like a parent before his sanity escaped him.

Ghostbur, face pulled into a harrowed expression that does not suit the vibrant colour of his sweater but definitely matches the lifelessness of his skin, seems ready to pounce, fists clenching as if he is holding back the urge to drag Tommy’s hands far away from his faintly bleeding neck. Yet at the same time he seems to be on the edge of fleeing, of running from another problem instead of facing it head on, because he is captive to the instincts of a villain that tell him denial is better than acceptance. 

Tommy catches a glimpse of pink hair caught in the wind, blurred in reality by the snowfall and in Tommy’s vision by the way his head is spinning, but Techno does not come any closer, standing several feet away as if he will be infected by the loss of sanity if he breathes the same air as his collapsed brother. It’s easy to imagine the discomfort evident on Techno’s face. Techno is no stranger to emotional breakdowns, a fact that Tommy knows he shouldn’t be aware of, but it was always hard not to listen through the crack in a bedroom door and watch as Phil gently coaxed him out of another episode. 

He may have the experience but emotional support has never been his area of expertise, not when his methods of venting frustration are mining or farming till he can no longer feel his fingers or enacting copious amounts of violence on any monster in his path. Techno cannot teach anyone else how to be healthy when it comes to coping mechanisms and he often cannot force himself to have a soft tone, his voice flat and irritable instead. And so the duty of comfort rests solely on Phil’s shoulders, who approaches the boy warily, kicking Tommy’s sword slightly to the side so it is just out of his reach.

“Tommy, it’s going to be okay. Whatever you’re going through, we can help you with, okay?” Phil murmurs placatingly, his words hollow considering his family has never truly watched his back. Tommy’s mind forever words against him, twisting and malforming everything he hears till Phil’s voice is as sharp as the diamond blade that sliced open his brother’s chest, loud over the low sound of Techno’s growl. Somehow, the tone he makes up is more comforting, because Tommy isn’t used to care, he’s used to bitter words and betrayal and barely being able to speak without someone yelling at him to shut up.

And Tommy should flinch, should quiver, should grovel at his father’s feet just like Dream had manipulated him to with his fingers curled around Tommy’s puppet strings. But the fear that had engraved itself deep into his bones disappears, because Tommy is too far gone for his own good and his emotions cycle at a rapid pace that no one could ever control. As the numbness spreads across every inch of his skin, he decides he’s willing to take on any punishment, for it cannot hurt if Tommy can no longer feel anything. 

Phil is no Dream, or at least, he shouldn’t be. They are both clad in various shades of green, Dream’s blindingly bright hoodie meant to draw all eyes to this server’s god, the emerald slung around Phil’s neck glinting in the light and reflecting Tommy’s lost expression over its surface. But that’s just a colour, right? Nothing more, nothing less, and yet Tommy stares up and sees his abuser reflected in the one who abandoned him, the consoling words seeming false from the both of them. 

Gaslighting was Dream’s natural talent. _They don’t care about you anymore,_ a serpent had whispered in his ears. _You were just a nuisance in the end. I’m your only friend now, Tommy._ And, in turn, Tommy had eagerly taken a bite of Dream’s offerings, feasting on the smallest bits of affection while Dream busied himself with constantly leaving Tommy on the brink of death. By the time he realised, by the time the shine had worn off and manipulation had become apparent, Dream had already ruined him, leaving him standing on the edge of a pillar ready to jump into the void that had swallowed Wilbur too. 

Phil isn’t Dream, but Tommy can’t believe in comforting tones, not when he fell eagerly into Dram’s trap of isolation and sweet talk as the bastard walked the tightrope between small acts of kindness and intense explosions of the only things Tommy had left. All Tommy can manage to do is laugh, shakily, the noise sounding so wrong and hoarse as it escapes his lips, because Tommy used to laugh like the sunshine, bright and bold and uplifting even as it grates on everyone else’s senses. 

His father’s expression grows stranger, even more concerned, and Tommy just laughs harder because the thought of anyone actually giving a damn about him feels like a joke. The three of them all stare at the crumpled form of a brother, a son, a fallen warrior and watch in abject horror as his hysterical cackles never cease, even when the still healing wounds on his stomach make him double over in pain as the ache deep inside grows stronger and stronger.

“Tommy,” Phil whispers his name once again, his voice cracking as if there are unshed tears in his eyes that he blinks away before Tommy can see even a single sign of sorrow shed for him, the youngest on this server, the victim in this game. His fingers carefully brush away overgrown stands of blonde hair out of Tommy’s eyes to reveal the subdued gaze beneath and Tommy feels his fingertips tremble before his warm hands envelop Tommy’s own, rubbing them to bring back a semblance of warmth. “Let’s go home, okay? You can warm up by the fire, I’m sure Wilbur can make you some of the hot chocolate you like-“

“I don’t have a home. Not anymore.” Hurt passes through Phil’s expression and Tommy’s starved skin starts to burn under his touch, but it’s so true it doesn’t even hurt to think of it anymore. He hasn’t since the day he turned fourteen and left behind the cottage, bright-eyed with braces-covered teeth, expecting to meet his family again in better circumstances. He knows better now than to expect anything but disappointment. “Don’t you get it? I have absolutely nothing left. I lost Wilbur, I lost L’Manburg, I lost Tubbo. What else do I have to go back to?” 

Nothing. He has nothing, no strength left in his limbs to drag himself off to a far-off part of the server and set up a cottage for himself and pretend that he’s young and dumb again. Techno’s cabin is not a home, not when Tommy is burrowed beneath the ground constantly expecting to hear Dream’s fist knocking against the door. His laughter abruptly dies, the manic smile fading off his face in an instant, eyes hollow and grey as they look into Phil’s own, barely feeling a single thud of emotion at the pain in his father’s gaze.

There’s a noise, a rattling of a weapon strapped to someone’s side, and Tommy turns his head, hands still clasped in Phil’s own, to find Techno striding forward, his heavy boots making harsh imprints in the snow as his cloak drags over the frost. He doesn’t say anything as he grips tight around Tommy’s wrist and yanks him up hard enough to almost shove his arm out of the socket. The younger’s hands are ripped away from his father’s touch and Tommy squashes the urge to thank the piglin, not even complaining about the rough treatment. 

Tommy just dangles awkwardly in his grasp, arms too weak to fight off his brother’s powerful hold, and he can feel Techno falter the second he notices just how light Tommy really is, just how small his bones feel beneath Techno’s fingers. Blue eyes stare up at the towering hybrid but Tommy can pick up on absolutely nothing, the other’s gaze hidden behind shadows and bone, but he already expects Techno to be looking down at him in disgust, the word coward barely swallowed before it rises to the surface for the sole reason that he knows Phil would scold him for it.

Techno makes a move as if he is about to properly drag the boy into his arms and Tommy knows very well that Techno does not do gentle with anyone but his father. He still has the slight scars on his knuckles from sword practice to prove it. It’s likely he’ll be carried back over Techno’s shoulder, knocked around like a sack of potatoes as no one bothers to protest because Tommy isn’t worth the consideration.

“Stand up, Theseus,” he demands and Tommy almost deludes himself that there is a hint of worry in his flat voice, but he knows better than that and dismisses the thought as soon as it rises. To imagine Technoblade of all people caring about his safety is the action of a fool and despite his reckless behaviour, Tommy is not a clueless idiot. He’s a follower, dedicated to whoever he decides to latch onto, but that doesn’t mean he lacks the capacity to separate fiction from reality and the reality is that no love exists between the two of them.

The name _Theseus_ sparks too much discomfort, Tommy’s nerves going haywire as the sound crashes through his rationality. Tommy wishes Techno would stop calling him that, because everytime the name escapes his lips, the detonation of bombs rings in Tommy’s ears. He pleads to the high heavens for the noise to just _stop,_ but Tommy is just as easily uneasy when it’s completely silent, reminded of days spent craving touch when all that could offer relief was the clinging waves that swept him under. 

Techno has never claimed himself to be a kind man, but the mocking that Tommy has faced ever since he peeked out from behind Phil’s legs and saw pink hair and protruding tusks for the first time is far too cruel to enact on a little brother. That kind of childish envy had never quite disappeared from Techno’s eyes, only sharpening into something a little more annoyed and bitter when Tommy would laugh too loud or through himself into another fight with no protection.

Tommy knows very well that if Techno had to trade his life to save Phil’s, he would do it instantly without question. It stings, because while Tommy would do the same if the circumstances were reversed, at least he would hesitate first before signing Techno’s death warrant. But Tommy is an expendable resource after all, useless apart from his minuscule worth as another body to die upon L’Manburg’s soil or as the reward for completing a favour. For you, Phil: the world. But for Tommy, it’s a firework to his chest and fist to his face and the never-ending fear that sharp tusks and dark eyes sparks in him, because violence has never hurt as bad as the words Techno won’t stop launching his way.

Perhaps the reason Tommy played into the palm of Dream’s hand so easily is because part of him that he has desperately tried for years to beat down still earnestly believes in a certain set of family values - abandonment, mistreatment, constant criticism and never-ending warfare. Subconsciously, Tommy searches for approval from those that hurt him the most, sticking by the side of a trench coat-wearing terrorist who paraded around with the face of Tommy’s brother, unapologetically clinging to Dream’s sleeve whenever the man seemed as if he was about to vanish into thin air. 

Without even realising it, Tommy grabs at whatever replica, whatever replacement, he can get, of a father who never cared, a brother who never loved and another brother who never knew his own limits. Whenever alarm bells ring and everyone with a bit of rationality left flees for safety, Tommy instead strides headfirst into danger, for unwarranted injuries is the only thing that feels nostalgic anymore. It feels as if he has spent a lifetime as the personal punching bag of everyone he has ever cared about. 

And so Tommy does not think, does not falter and feels no apologies are necessary when he lunges for his sword and slams the hilt hard enough into Techno’s face to crack his boar mask clean into pieces. Techno stumbles back in shock, dropping Tommy’s arm so he can clutch at his face where the shards have cut his skin, the areas around his nose and cheeks already blooming with red. It’s the first time he has bled because of Tommy. Perhaps he should feel victorious because of that. Instead, he just feels tired. 

“Tommy, what are you doing?” Techno grits out through clenched teeth, red spilling through the cracks in his fingers. He’s looking at Tommy as if he is facing a wounded animal, a newborn fawn lashing out in fear, and Tommy wonders how many of his victims he has stared at this way before he tore out their throats. Tommy hates this kind of patronising look, as if Tommy is driven by something stupid, as if it is inevitable before he caves into his family’s demands. But this is no temper tantrum, this is simply the outcome of years of biting back his reasonable complaints until they turned into a swirling pit of hatred in his chest.

Taking a few steps back, his freezing ankles nearly crumbling under his own weight, Tommy curls his fingers around one of the many ender pearls that fill his pockets. In the last couple of weeks, as tensions have risen and attempts were made against the three lives Techno still holds, Ranboo had caved in to his nervous habit of mass-creating the things. When he had dropped them all unceremoniously into Tommy’s lap, explaining he had no need for so many, Tommy hadn’t complained, not like with the supplies others had thrown his way out of guilt. 

With everyone else on the server, there was always a discontent feeling of obligation in their shifty eyes, as if they had been forced by Tommy’s age and lack of maturity to give him little gifts that were useless in his exile. But with Ranboo, it’s different. His awkward, stuttering manner of speaking had felt a lot more genuine compared to the forced cheerful tones he couldn’t stomach for more than a matter of seconds, and he had only ever offered tools that Tommy felt too much guilt over when Dream dropped them into a pit the next morning.

Tommy had felt mocked by the appearance of a Tubbo statue standing high over Logstedshire, as if it’s makers were rubbing in his face just how far Tommy had fallen from the pedestal of power, the position of vice president and the prestige of being Tubbo’s best friend. But Ranboo’s offerings had never been grandiose or veiled insults. He had cared a lot more than he really should have, as he kept on trying when Tommy kept pushing him away, never faltering in his stitled attempts at conversation. Tommy misses him, but he won’t pull the one person who he thinks he can actually trust into this mess that he has made. He’ll just have to rely on Ranboo’s ender pearls instead. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m done. I can’t stay here anymore, not like this.” Tommy shakes his head to rid himself of the snow that has stuck in his hair, another branding of his affiliation to the Antarctic Empire that he wants rid of. If Tommy abandons this fractured, never healing home, then he’ll have nothing left to his name, but perhaps he’ll have the chance to rebuild his life from the ground up with a better foundation, or perhaps he will simply fade into nothingness. Either option sounds better than this existence. “I can’t just stand here and listen to everyone lie about how everything is going to be okay. I can’t stick around when I know that none of you actually care about me, not really.”

“Tommy, don’t-” Phil calls out, voice breaking when he catches the glimpse of a pearl in his hand. Techno scrambles to grab his arm and Ghostbur stares through like he can’t even see him there. And Tommy? Tommy casts them all one last sad, lonely smile and throws it in the direction he knows the rubble that was once his place of exile resides. Bracing for impact, arms curled over his head as the world shifts around him, he lands out of sight but still not far enough for comfort, the only evidence of him ever standing in the Antarctic Empire being the footprints left behind in the snow. 

And so he runs, runs and throws more pearls and never looks back, just like he should have done years ago in the middle of the night when Wilbur was fast asleep and Phil and Techno were nowhere to be found. Tommy stumbles through the cold, through overhanging branches, through the useless remains of his once prison and past the pillar he had almost thrown himself off once, without Icarus’ wax wings to prevent him crashing straight into the ground as he descended, the sun beating down on his fragile skin and blinding him from having to witness the sky growing further and further away. 

Instead, Tommy had smashed into the body of water beneath and felt the current drag him back under once more, threatening to sap away what little want to breathe he had left. But he had kept moving, had broken through to the surface choking on water and his own tears, because Tommy had never known when it was time to give up for good. Not until now, not until his spirit has been beaten down till he’s standing on his last life and the constant pressure has gotten too much for his tiny bones.

Enough is enough. Tommy tumbles through the nether portal, over uneven pathways before he slows to a stop right at the same point where Dream had planted a foot on his back and warned him against dying just yet. His legs brought him here without him even having to think, running along on instinct alone. He wants to be here above all else and he thinks he knows exactly why as his gaze lingers at the pool of lava bubbling below, his feet resting far too near the edge. Frostbite isn’t instant, would have taken far too long, especially when his family would be acting as his life support. Lava is a different story.

Perhaps it would be easier for him if he entered through the main gateway, right into the borders of the land he is barred from, and let one of Dream’s lackeys pierce a sword through his chest so he could bleed out in his father’s arms, a mirror image of his brother’s demise. But his family are fast, Ghostbur can float and Phil can fly and Techno has a base stacked so full of supplies that Tommy’s own stack of ender pearls seem miniscule in comparison. He has no time to turn his back, no time to get distracted, no time to waste. 

Standing on the crumbling edge of the bridge he had crafted himself for visitors that never came, Tommy digs into his inventory, through the tools crafted from whatever materials he could steal from Techno’s storage and the endless stacks of golden apples. He grabs whatever potions he can find and gulps them down greedily, hoping somehow they can stop his hands from trembling. But his fingers shake around each and every glass bottle, because potion making was the origin of L’Manburg and drinking a single one always makes him stomach turn. His spinning vision can’t pick up on the colours, but something deep inside yearns for the taste of poison coating his tongue. 

Tommy hears the fluttering of Phil’s wings before he catches a glimpse of the man landing behind him, Ghostbur floating along uncertainly beside their father with his expression so confused Tommy can only assume he’s already forgotten their conversation moments prior. Techno isn’t close, however, and Tommy would consider the high chance of him not coming along at all until he catches a glint of that distinctive crown in the distance. Lovely. A family reunion despite Tommy’s pitiful attempt at escaping the Antarctic Empire. 

Phil rushes forward, blonde hair in a disarray, eyes wild with uncontrollable fear. He isn’t a threat, he shouldn’t be, but Tommy’s messed up mind instantly perceives him as a danger. Rationality isn’t Tommy’s forte but he’s been hurt by this man more than anyone else could ever understand. A father’s love should never arrive so late, not when abandonment was Tommy’s first experience with parental care, not when a sixteen year old had been left to fend for himself when the one person who had truly cared lost themselves beyond all reasoning.

“Stay back! Don’t come any closer!” Tommy yells, his voice still cracking and hoarse from the months of disuse, with no one to talk to but the dolphins that swam by Logstedshire’s shore. His arms open wide in a gesture of anger, flailing with no care for the world around him, and the torch stuck to the obsidian wall behind him tumbles to the ground uselessly, flame flickering into nothingness, a mirror image of the light fading from Tommy’s once bright eyes. Yet the lava continues bubbling below, violent in its outburst just as Tommy is unapologetic in his own, and Tommy is drawn to it like a moth is to any flame, it’s siren song constantly swimming through his ears.

“Tommy.” Phil can’t seem to stop saying his name with such heartbreak layered over it and Tommy chuckles at the prospect of someone truly mourning the loss of a fool, head tilted back so he does not have to look his father directly in the eyes. There’s a special kind of pleading reserved solely for a parent’s gaze, one that can break easily through any child’s walls, and Tommy is still weak to the bare minimum, even now. “Please just… step back from the ledge, son. We can talk about this.”

Tommy shakes his head, smiling softly in a way that may seem disarming but does nothing to hide the blatant hollowness that lies beneath. “I really don’t want to listen to anything you have to say, but I’m sure I can talk enough for the both of us.” He doesn’t feel the need to hear Phil’s platitudes now. Nothing can bring back Tommy’s want to continue walking, not when every actor on this server has had their role to play in the theatre production that is Tommy’s tragic story. “I’m just not sure if you’re really willing to listen.” No one ever has. No one ever pays attention to how the confidence in Tommy’s voice was always just an over-the-top mask hiding the scared little child underneath. 

Techno climbs up over uneven netherrack and takes his usual spot as the favourite son, standing just behind Phil’s shoulder as Ghostbur takes a few troubled steps forward, and the distance between all of them and Tommy feels like it’s an accurate representation of their history, just flipped on its head, with Tommy finally being the one to push his family far, far away. He watches with disinterested eyes as Techno takes a few heavy breaths, panting, his usually calculated movements a lot slower than usual, as if all his stamina has been squandered on a meaningless journey.

“T-Tommy, you seem s-stressed,” Ghostbur stumbles over the words, an unusual act for the ghost, because while his voice always echoes uncomfortably to signal that Wilbur is not quite the same as he once was, he is not one to grow so clumsy in his speaking. Wilbur had been a charismatic leader in life and if Tommy squints, he can almost see a peek of that flickering over Ghostbur’s grey skin, fingerless gloves over his hands for a split second, the golden detailing of L’Manburg’s uniform scattered over his chest. “A-are you sure you don’t want to have some blue?” Ghostbur stutters and instead of calming down, Tommy sees red. 

“I don’t want any blue!” The words tear out of his mouth without warning, practically a screech that carries over the entirety of the nether, and Ghostbur flinches back again, his eyes glinting dangerously as they gain back a semblance of life. For a second, Tommy doesn’t see a ghost nor his older brother, but a monster in dark clothes with a slick smirk and bruised knuckles. A shiver runs down his spine, but he casts the fear aside, squeezing his eyes tight shut as more and more repressed emotions spill out. “I’m sixteen, I have a family, I shouldn’t be in the position where I need something to get rid of my sadness for me. I should be happy. But I’m not, I haven’t been in years, and I’m sick of it! I’m sick of everything!”

The blue can’t save him now. Sadness is etched into his skin and the sorrow too deeply hidden behind his rib cage for anything but a scalpel to remove. Tommy wishes he could pry himself open, crack his bones out of his chest and dig into the cavity where his somehow still beating heart rests. He’s already given his family all of the love he can manage. Perhaps they would have cared more if he had given them that physical token of adoration. But he doesn’t want to waste any more of their precious time, nor does he want to waste anymore of his limited one.

“I don’t care about anything anymore, I don’t have the energy left in me to!” Tears prick at the corner of his eyes but he blinks away the sign of weakness. Tommy hasn’t cried since he was a toddler, watching his birth mother get torn to pieces by a zombie that had broken through their weak defences. He’s been blank, numb, barren since, wandering around with a permanent smile that no one noticed was strained. He wants to keep himself together, just a little while longer. “I’m past the point of saving and I don’t want any more of your pity. I’ve never wanted anything except for you to actually want me.” 

“Tommy, we do care about you, we always have-” Phil insists and Tommy nearly cackles once more, because it’s funny, really, that his father assumes Tommy could be so easily convinced. A few sweet words, a simple pat on the head once in a while, a hug once every blue moon - these are tokens of affection and they are nothing in Tommy’s eyes. Dream had stood on the shore and gathered Tommy into his grasp and constantly stabbed him in the back while pretending to be the only friend willing to attend his pity party. His trust, his loyalty, was once easily earned but that time is nothing but a distant memory now. 

“Do you? Do you really?” Tommy asks contemplatively, as if he is willing to offer any thought to such a crazy idea. “Becuase I really fucking doubt it. Wilbur, I could see, maybe at first. Ghostbur, maybe. But you or Techno? Don’t make me laugh.” The snear comes over his lips unwillingly and the ugly expression makes Phil wince, makes Ghostbur’s hands shake, makes Techno’s eyes widen. “I stood by and let it all happen, I kept telling myself to suck it up. But I’m done. I don’t need to be lied to anymore.”

Tommy listens to their counter arguments, their failed refusal of the truth, and realises that Techno, unshakeable and unmoveable Techno who only ever is soft for his father and dead brother and never the trainwreck that stands before him, has pity in his eyes. It’s strange to witness an emotion there other than barbaric greed. Blood is for the blood god and Techno will spill it shamelessly, but tamer methods of appreciation have always been lost on him. So why now, why is it now that he’s trying to make an effort, why is it now he’s finally considering Tommy worthy of some level of consideration? 

Techno has always been quick-witted with deceit and deception, a master of strategy and seclusion, his analytical eyes seeking out flaws in enemy defences. That’s why Tommy has never trusted him. Wilbur was good with words, excellent at winning hearts, and his skill had never been so dangerous to a child. He would always know the exact lullabies to sing on stormy nights, the right comforting words to murmur after a nightmare. But Techno thrives on things that make Tommy’s stomach turn and the war of their ideals had never worked in Tommy’s favour.

For all that intelligence, Techno has never truly understood Tommy, acting as if he is a child unable to make his own decision, all the while mindlessly manhandling him as if he is an adult able to take any verbal beating. Tommy had worshipped his brother once upon a time as an untouchable warrior, an unbeatable fighter. The thought makes him sick. Techno is nothing but another flawed, imperfect man who fails at concealing his faults. Piglin genes be damned, he’s a human and as fucked up as the rest of them and he has never treated Tommy with any kind of respect. 

“Why do you care? Why would any of you care if I just jumped?” The words keep tumbling out, the dam that stopped Tommy from voicing his true feelings finally having cracked and shattered. “I’m just a useless, good-for-nothing kid who has never been able to keep his mouth shut. I’m sorry I could never be what anyone wanted, but it would make up for that if I wasn’t here anymore, right?” Tommy is sorry for many things - for never being as good as Techno, for never being worthy enough to go on his father’s many adventures, for being the sole reason Wilbur could never live his actual life, for not being able to pull Wilbur back from the brink when Dream got his hands on him, for never being what Techno wanted, for getting on his brother’s nerves to the point of inciting hatred.

“You should have left me there on the streets to rot.” Tommy can’t stop rambling and his voice leaves destruction in its wake, watching the stoic expression of his least favourite brother crumble until nothing but horror is left behind. They had all been found by Phil, saved from worse circumstances and to even contemplate returning would lead to a death sentence. Tommy had been a sickly orphan when Phil had found him, pickpocketing for spare change, snatching fruit from market stalls, and at least back then he hadn’t been lured into a false sense of security. “Why take me with you if you weren’t going to try and look after me? I- Part of me wishes I had run away that day. Maybe dying then would have been better than being here.”

“You don’t mean that. You can’t mean that.” Tommy smiles, bright and bold and utterly fake, lacking all the warmth that had once come alongside his glowing grin, and Phil blanks. Watching as Ghostbur grows even more faint and his father grows even more grim and Techno grows even more unlike himself, Tommy tries to hold back the warring urges inside of him, telling him to just throw himself off now, to keep his secrets hidden in death, fighting against the side of him that wants to yell and scream and kick out in righteous anger. “Oh my god, you do. Tommy-"

“I just want to go home,” Tommy interjects, mouth curling down because he hates the blatant pity in Phil’s gaze more than anything. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to go to L’Manburg. I want to go _home_ _.”_ Tommy doesn’t want to fight, he just wants to sleep, curled up in his childhood bed with his childhood version of Wilbur brushing a hand through his hair. But that home is long gone, gaining dust in a far off server, left to rot just like Tommy was. Tommy imagines the closest thing that will ever feel like home to him is the warm embrace of the lava below. “I thought L’Manburg could have been a new start, you know. Somewhere I could have finally felt like I belonged. Then Techno and Wilbur tore it all down.” 

“Tommy-“ Techno starts, finally stepping out from behind Phil, seemingly having regained his poker face when Tommy wasn’t paying attention. But he can already see the cracks reappearing, his eyes flitting around nervously and begging for Tommy to come back to his senses, the windows to his soul no longer hidden beneath a decorative skull. Tommy cuts him off with a casual wave of his hand, eyes sharp and biting, lacking the care to play along with his brother’s sympathy. 

“Don’t talk, I don’t want to listen to a traitor trying to defend themselves.” Tommy is a traitor against his own country too. Perhaps it is hypocritical for him to condemn Techno turning his back on Pogtopia, when he is now working against L’Manburg, but none of this is through fault of Tommy’s own. He only became willing to side with the Antarctic Empire because the country he had worked so hard for since it’s very conception had decided his loyalty was disposable. 

“I told you from the very beginning what my plan was,“ Techno growls, his sharp tusks scraping against the edges of his own face, and Tommy could laugh at the intimidation tactic unconsciously rearing its head. It’s just like him to avoid anything but what always strikes fear in the heart’s of weaker men. But Tommy isn’t weak, not anymore, and he finds himself staring his brother in the face and smiling, innocently, even as the words he speaks are nothing but bitter.

“I should have stopped listening to you a long time ago. You think I’d give a shit about your goals when you’ve never cared about me in the first place? You’re naive if you believed I would be anything but selfish.” And it’s the truth of the matter. It’s so difficult for Tommy to actually give a fuck about Techno’s urge for anarchy when the same Techno has only ever treated Tommy as a worthless addition to their family. Tommy doesn’t want to be so utterly selfish, but he’s sick of giving and giving and everyone else taking and taking till he’s left with an empty hole in his chest where his heart should be and he will not give Techno any more of his energy.

 _You said that Tommy doesn’t care about anyone else, but that’s not true,_ Ranboo’s voice echoes in his ears. Tommy thinks he was right at the time, even though his unhealthy levels of loyalty for the wrong people has never been something to brag about. _He’s not selfish. He can’t be selfish._ But Tommy knows that he struck a balance between selfishness and selflessness because he still had something left in him to give. He’s empty now, barren of any sort of hope, pockets filled with supplies that aren’t even his own to offer. 

He can still hear Tubbo’s voice now, filtered through the harsh tone Tommy had grown eerily expectant of from everyone except the best friend who proceeded to stamp all over the remains of Tommy’s fragile sanity. _You’re selfish, Tommy. Selfish, selfish, selfish -_ the word repeats, spinning and swirling through his overloaded head, a haunting choir trying to drown out Phil’s pleas, the smiling facade never cracking under the force of his own thoughts trying to urge him over the edge. 

“Tommy, just- please just come here,” Phil begs, hands hovering in front of him as if he wants to run forward and gather Tommy into his arms like he should have done months ago when Tommy was covered in scrapes and scars and the evidence of betrayal. Techno stands at his side, feigning disinterest, even though Tommy is so used to the other’s quirks that he can tell his brother is desperately trying to hold the voices in his head back. Tommy wonders. Is he a coward? Or is finally confronting his family a brave action, worthy of respect, until you realise he’s teetering on the brink of losing everything? Do the voices that harmonise for only Techno to witness their performance consider him a failure too? 

“You know,” Tommy whispers, his voice soft and whimsical but deafening even amongst the sound of nearby mobs. “This isn’t the first time I’ve stood here and just… wished the ground would crumble.” Ghostbur lets out a sharp, wounded gasp. “This isn’t the first time I’ve stood anywhere and not thought it would be so much easier if I just let the server make the decision for me. Pogtopia had no railings, remember? Part of me wanted to just trip and fall off the edge, or maybe just suffocate in the walls when I got trapped by those pistons.” Tommy laughs once more, hand over his mouth before he scrubs it over tired eyes. “I thought I could have been happy here. Those kinds of thoughts prove that I was wrong.” 

He stops laughing abruptly, the sound dying as he looks his family directly in the face and keeps on smiling. “And none of you tried to make me happy. Techno, you only ever showed up to mock me. Phil, you only ever came once and you didn’t even try to hug me. You just carried on talking as if nothing was wrong, as if my exile never happened. And Ghostbur, you stopped coming. You stopped showing up. I thought my family would come save me, but you all abandoned me too, just like L’Manburg did. By the time I found you - because I was the one who had to look for you, none of you bothered to save me - I was fucking traumatised. I had to steal to survive like I was a fucking orphan again. The only reason you even know I’m alive is because I can never shut up.”

“But if I was quieter and Techno never found me under his house, I would have died. The frostbite would have killed me, or maybe a mob could have. Or maybe Dream would have gotten to me first. But you could have changed it, all of you could have taken me with you in the first place. But you didn’t and I don’t know why. Am I that forgettable?” No, of course Tommy isn’t, he knows that. He’s too loud to be ignored, shouting and yelling to catch anyone’s eyes because he thrives on being the centre of attention since at least someone will look at him then. 

They didn’t save him because they didn’t care enough to. It’s as simple as that. They adorn him in all the luxuries the Antarctic Empire can provide, but the silver crown, a mirror image of Techno’s own, has sat unused, for it’s all for show, all for their own benefit. They’ve never accepted him, not truly, he’ll forever be the outsider in their ranks. He’s just a soldier once more, fighting for a cause he’s too tired to try and believe in, waiting for the inevitable where there’s nothing left for Tommy but heartache. 

“Everyone seems to think I want chaos, but do you really think I want to fight anymore?” Tommy asks, hands clenching in the soft material of his cloak. “I’ve been a soldier for other people’s ideals my entire fucking life. I hardly feel like I’m in control of myself anymore, because violence shouldn’t be the answer but that’s all you ever taught me!” Tommy finds catharsis in bloodthirst, even as his heart burns in protest, and he hates himself for being raised that problems are better solved with fists . He’s so desensitized to it all now because everything he touches turns rotten and warfare is a curse that follows each generation of his family.

“At least back then I still had a little bit of life in me, even if all I got out of it was war. But then the exile happened and I got so fucking dependant on Dream that I can’t even write a list now without asking for other people’s approval. Every time I make a decision without someone else’s guidance I feel like ripping my own hair out.” When Tommy squeezes his eyes shut in the dead of night, hidden below the creaking floorboards of Techno’s house and surrounded by stone, he should reopen them to the usual sight, fingers curled in the soft sheets of his bed. 

Instead, he awakens on Logstedshire’s shore, curled up on a beach chair, the sun beating down on exposed skin through the tears in his t-shirt, finger-shaped bruises still vibrant around the curve of his wrist, Dream’s footprints still fresh in the sand. After the panic has settled slightly and his vision blurs back to reality, Tommy likes to delude himself that the volume of his screams doesn’t transfer through stone and floorboards. It’s better to think like that, instead of thinking about how Techno would ignore the cries with a disgruntled expression, because all Tommy happens to be is a nuisance, a thief, worthy of so little respect it’s laughable. 

“Do you want to know why I kept eating all of your apples? Because I’m constantly fucking terrified of the next time I’ll go without a meal. Dream blew up my supplies every fucking day, even if it was something as insignificant as a bunch of seeds. I couldn’t grow anything and I couldn’t take too much wheat from the nearby village, so I wouldn’t eat for days on end. Why do you think I look like this?” Tommy waves his hand towards the loose-fitting uniform that practically engulfs his entire figure, made for a man with strong bones and not a child who can barely stand on his own two feet without shaking from exertion. 

Tommy isn’t solely ravenous for food - oh no, he always gorges on other people’s affection until they grow sick of his appetite and cast him aside as if he is rotten to the core. They bite and bite and bite until nothing is left but the horrors that lie beneath Tommy’s once golden exterior, until his skin is peeled back to show the prominence of his ribs and the failing of his heartbeat. And he in turn keeps on scavenging, tearing his teeth through his favourite treats and waiting eagerly with panic for the status effect to wear off just so he could stuff another bite in his mouth, because at least absorption gave him extra hearts to throw at the feet of his family, extra health to waste on those who had never offered him a helping hand because Tommy has never known how to not be self-destructive. 

“I’ve gone through so much on this fucking server. I’ve given so much up. My own brother fucking beat me half-to-death on the regular and Techno, you just stood there and watched. And where the fuck were you, Phil? On another hardcore world, leaving your kid to get fucked over by everyone he’s ever cared about.” Tommy’s lips are curled back into a snarl but his eyes are so full of fatigue, barely bothering to focus anymore on the saddened expressions on the faces of should-be saviours who ended up being just another source of regret.

“When I was a kid, I saw you all as heroes,” he admits, willing to speak of his childish thoughts because it’s near hilarious now just how far off the mark he had been. “You saved me when you took me in. But then you destroyed me all over again. My heroes failed me, are failing me, will never stop failing me. I’m sick of putting my faith in the wrong people but I don’t think I can stop myself. It’s like I’m addicted to being disappointed. And if I have to condemn Dream for what he did to me, then I’ll have to condemn you too, won’t I?”

His father starts talking again but Tommy drowns him out, daydreaming, thinking of different circumstances. Something in Tommy always cracks when he sees Phil and remembers the blood soaking through the thick material of Wilbur’s trench coat. But something in him burns in want, because he wants to be there, he wishes so desperately he was like Ghostbur, who can afford to pretend like the world isn’t burning beneath his feet all because he’s already a walking corpse.

“It’s a bit too late to give a fuck about me, Phil.” God, Tommy finds himself giddy when his three biggest demons realise he won’t even call his father _dad_ anymore. Because Techno rejects family ideals and Wilbur tries to act mature, but Tommy has never stopped, not until this moment when they are finally aware that they all failed. “You could have cared earlier. You could have, but you never did. You should have stopped me from going on this server, you should have saved me from Dream, you should have actually looked after me when I was a kid and got too reckless because no one ever taught me how not to be. I shouldn’t have had to hide under Techno’s house, you should have taken me from Logstedshire’s on day one.”

“You all did this to me.” Tommy’s eyes are hollow and grey and no longer the sparkling blue of old and they survey his family, barely aware of them now, all so ready for the moment he can no longer see, his pupils burnt to ashes. “You and Tubbo and Dream and this whole server tore me apart. I’m not the Tommy you knew, not anymore. And it’s all your fault. I’m done being used, but I’m also past the point of being saved.”

“And do you know what the worst part is? I loved you. I loved all of you, despite everything, and to be honest, I think I still do and I fucking hate myself for it.” Tommy laughs, digging the palms of his hands beneath his eyes to catch his own tears. “Who the fuck would love a family who treated them like trash except me? But I’ve never been good at not messing up in the worst way possible, have I? I’m just a screw-up, an impulsive idiot who can’t stop making mistakes.”

Tommy ignores the false love that tries to swallow him whole, ignores Ghostbur’s attempts to grab at him with intangible hands, and smirks, a thing full of vengeance. “Tragic heroes always die,” Tommy opens his arms wide, cloak caught in the wind as a wither passes by, and the slight movement makes Tommy stumble. “And I might not be a hero anymore, I might have never been one, but I am and always have been a tragedy. I’ll be the Theseus you always wanted me to be, Blade. This is all just for you.”. 

“Tommy, what the hell are you-“ Tommy watches the realisation dawn over Techno’s sharp features, eyes so comically wide Tommy would laugh if his chest didn’t feel as if it is caving in. It’s rare to catch him off guard and Tommy revels in the chance to see his brother like this, so utterly human, for one last time. “Tommy, don’t you dare-“ Techno lunges forward, axe clattering to the ground as he reaches out, and Tommy smiles, raising his arm up in a mocking salute.

“It was never meant to be.” And then Tommy tumbles over the edge of the cliff and free falls, panicked screams echoing through his ears, like a strange symphony that he could almost morph into that old anthem if he tried hard enough. _Oh, my L’Manburg, my L’Manburg. Just a big, blown up L’Manburg. I’m done protecting a land that never protected me in return. Reign hell, Blade, just for me._

He stares up at them as Ghostbur’s eyes widen with remembrance and Tommy only feels a sick sense of ice cold satisfaction as the incoming heat crawls over his skin. The ghost’s form flickers, once suddenly, twice for a bit longer, and then it blurs before a former president is in its place, tatted curls hanging over haunted eyes. And Wilbur, truly utterly Wilbur in all meanings of that name, screams, a howling thing, a ghostly wail of Tommy’s name that echoes through the Nether. Finally, moments before death may embrace him, Tommy has his brother back. Phil’s wings ready for flight beside Wilbur’s crumpled form but he won’t be able to catch Tommy in time. He’s too late, just as he has always been. 

The cloak burns first, falling back off Tommy’s shoulders. It had been a symbol of protection, the fur lining hiding Tommy’s frail body from everyday blizzards, the hood keeping his still far too recognisable face away from prying eyes, as if the pale blue colour wasn’t enough to guarantee his own wanted poster as one of the Antarctic Empire’s men. Now, it’s gone, a reflection of how Tommy is bare for the world to see now, all of his false bravado stripped away to reveal the neglected child beneath. 

The compass, amateurishly engraved by a ghost’s hands, leading to the one person Tommy thought would die for him just as he would die for them, slips from his fingertips. He doesn’t bother glueing his eyes to its fall. His and Tubbo’s friendship became unsalvageable the minute Tubbo saw him as expendable and there’s no strength left in Tommy’s failing body to grieve for something so easily lost. 

And as the lava singes the back of Tommy’s pale blue uniform and the friendship emerald that hung off his neck burns to ashes, he clutches the last gift he had ever received in his hand, an ender pearl from the last person Tommy truly felt he could call a friend. He thinks it over. Survive or die. _It’s never my time to die,_ Tommy thinks. But that was Dream’s decision, wasn’t it? And Dream abandoned him too. No one else here has the choice in their palm, it’s solely a weight on Tommy’s shoulders. 

He could die, for good this time around, and maybe return as a ghost oblivious to all the misdeeds this server had thrown his way. Or perhaps he’d return as a spirit seeking vengeance, spewing vitriol as lava drops down his grey skin, only aware of the worst. Or he could live, he could pretend, he could keep on moving forward, run away from all of this. But if he threw the pearl, let it guide him to a safe landing, then his family would know, they’d never stop running after him. Maybe one of the potions he had carelessly drank was for fire resistance. Tommy doesn’t know. Perhaps tumbling face first into the lava is still worth the risk, the possibility, that he can walk away alive while everyone else thinks he’s dead. There’s no use in living if he still has distractions blocking him from a better path. 

Tommy wonders what death would feel like, if he succumbed to the high chance of it. Would it embrace him in soft arms and rid the scars from his skin? Or would he be sent to hell for his sins, for his negligence? He wonders if it was always meant to be like this, if Tommy’s downfall was fated, destined, written in the stars. If Tommy was always meant to die not with a pathetic bang, but with a victorious whimper, because he may not be collapsed in a pool of his own blood on a battlefield as he fights for his country, but he is still relishing in triumph, getting comeuppance against his family the only way he knows how - by leaving them all behind.

Tommy closes his eyes. The ender pearl vanishes from his grip. Potions swirl through his veins. A decision is made. 

“Let me burn,” he whispers. “Isn’t this what you all wanted or is it just too much to ask for?”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> \- Discussion of child neglect and a generally unhealthy family dynamic. (Phil neglects Tommy, Techno is hostile towards him, Pogtopia!Wilbur was abusive.)  
> \- Discussion of Dream’s abuse and manipulation towards Tommy.  
> \- Tommy’s unhealthy mental state (suicidal thoughts and general self-hatred).  
> \- Suicide attempt. I tried to leave the ending ambiguous so whether or not Tommy dies is up to the reader (I feel like “let me burn” is more easily seen as “let me die”, but I was intending it to come across as Tommy just wanting his family to forget about him regardless of whether or not he is dead or alive), but the attempt is there no matter what you decide the outcome is. 


End file.
